


Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys at Wickford Castle

by heightsninenews



Series: Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Super Mysteries [2]
Category: Nancy Drew (Video Games), Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys Super Mysteries - Franklin W. Dixon & Carolyn Keene
Genre: Gen, Medical Inaccuracies, TRT spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:41:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27746128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heightsninenews/pseuds/heightsninenews
Summary: “When we first arrived at this frozen wasteland, I ordered a Fried Bologna Sandwich Supreme, and I paid extra for those potato chip sprinkles. But when my order finally arrived a full two hours later, what did I get? A decidedly not Supreme sandwich with no potato chip sprinkles!”Frank shoots Nancy a pained look and mimes crying.(A "what if the Hardy Boys ran into Nancy during TRT?" fic)
Series: Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Super Mysteries [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574557
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys at Wickford Castle

**Author's Note:**

> I promise the next one won't take a whole year...maybe.  
> Spot the Psych reference!  
> (And the Oscar Wilde quote, but I think that one might be a little more obvious...)

“Hey, Frank?” Joe Hardy yells, the wind howling around them. “I think this _might_ have been a mistake!”

Frank turns to face his brother, conveniently shielding his face from the heavy snowfall at the same time. “You think?” he shouts back, then adds as an afterthought, “I can’t feel my toes.”

“What?” Joe calls.

The Hardy brothers have made the incredibly foolish decision to come to Wisconsin for a ski trip in the middle of winter, during prime blizzard season, and it’s only now, after they’ve gotten out of the taxi and are presumably very close to their lodgings at Wickford Castle (though of course Frank has no way of knowing how close, because he can’t see more than a foot in front of him)—it’s _now_ that Joe says he thinks they’ve made a mistake.

Frank would roll his eyes, but he’s a little busy keeping them open.

 _I hate snow_ , he thinks grumpily. _And I hate skiing_.

Joe had been planning a “totally epic” ski trip out in Wisconsin for the past three months, along with their friend, Chet Morton. Unfortunately for both of them, Chet had bowed out at the last minute, and their parents wouldn’t let Joe go alone, so Frank had reluctantly agreed to accompany his brother on a trip that sounded absolutely miserable, even before he’d known that there would be a blizzard happening as soon as their plane landed.

Frank had been in favor of waiting it out at the airport, where there was a Starbucks, central heating, and several empty seats that could be used as makeshift beds. Joe had been in favor of “just getting on with it” and heading out to the castle so they could start their vacation as soon as possible.

“Fine,” Frank had said exasperatedly, after a solid twenty minutes of Joe complaining about the noise-level of the crowded airport. “If you can find a taxi which will actually get us to Wickford Castle, then we’ll go now.”

He hadn’t thought it was possible, considering the sheet of white he saw whenever he looked out the windows. But Joe had, of course, done the impossible and tracked down the craziest cab driver in the world, who eagerly told them he would drive them to Wickford, as long as they didn’t mind it taking twice as long as usual.

And now, as they drag their luggage through a foot of snow, Joe wants to turn back. “I think we could still catch the driver if we run!”

“Run _where_?” Frank’s not sure he could make it back to the road even if he tried.

Joe holds up his arm—and immediately stumbles backward, cursing and cradling his hand to his chest. “Ow! I hit something!” Then, “Oh my god, I _hit_ something! This has gotta be the castle!” He begins pounding on the door with his other hand and shouting. “Hey! Hello? Anybody there?”

Frank, for lack of any better ideas, drops his bag and joins his brother. “Help!” His shout is a bit more panicked than Joe’s, mostly because he’s imagining the two of them, stuck right outside the door of the castle for the entire night. To be so close and yet freeze to death anyway strikes him as the worst example of tragic irony. “ _Help_!”

Just as he’s about to abandon hope, the door creaks open. Joe rears back in surprise—Frank’s own reaction is only slightly more controlled.

The old man who opens the door is staring at them, his eyes sunken in craters boring out of a sharp, craggy face. The flashlight in his hand casts frightening shadows around him. "Can I help you?" he asks, his voice gruff and humorless.

Joe recovers more quickly. "Yes, uh, is this Wickford Castle?"

The man nods but doesn't say anything.

"Uh, I had a reservation. Can we come in?"

Frank would normally say something about how rude Joe's being, but he's a little preoccupied with leaning toward the warmth of the building.

The man moves back from the door and nods his head in the direction of a side room. “Come on into the parlor then. Was just about to put out the fire when I heard you.”

Joe drops his bag on the floor inside and hurries to the fire, shucking off his boots along the way. Frank takes his time unwinding his scarf from his neck, glancing up at the tall ceiling of the entryway. He hadn’t cared to look up Wickford Castle before they left; Joe had spent plenty of time describing the ski slopes, but he’d completely neglected to mention that the place really did look like a castle, right down to the suit of armor and the marble checkerboard floor.

The old man clears his throat pointedly.

Frank jumps. He’s a little ashamed of how jittery he is, but nothing about this trip is turning out as planned. Still, it’s too early to get on someone’s bad side, especially someone who seems to work there, so he quickly makes his way over to sit by Joe.

“Pick up after yourself,” he hisses, tilting his head in the direction of Joe’s winter gear.

His brother rolls his eyes but drags himself to his feet, gathering his things with an exaggerated sort of industriousness.

“You’re lucky you caught me before I turned in for the night,” says the old man, hovering next to him. “Otherwise, no one would have been around to hear you two.”

Joe drops his boot in shock. “Does that mean Jacques Brunais isn’t here?”

“Who?” says Frank.

Joe’s head whips around, his eyes wide with alarm. “Jacques Brunais! The Olympic skier who gives lessons here? The whole _reason_ I picked Wickford for the ski trip and not somewhere else?”

The man levels Joe with a flat, unimpressed stare. “He’s here alright, but you won’t be skiing anytime soon. It’s too dangerous out there now, and I’m not sure when this weather will lighten up. Not to mention all the time it’ll take to clear the lift.”

Joe’s face falls.

“Shocked we still have power,” the man adds as an afterthought.

Frank huddles a little closer to the fire at those ominous words. Maybe the man is just trying to make them feel grateful, but he’s laying it on a bit thick. “So, uh, are you the owner here?”

“Caretaker,” he responds gruffly. “Dexter Egan.”

He is plainly unwilling to provide more information, and Frank’s unwilling to ask, so there’s nothing but silence for a few minutes, until Dexter abruptly stands and leaves the room.

Frank and Joe trade uncertain glances.

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Positive,” hisses Joe. “He knew about Jacques Brunais, didn’t he?”

He did, but Frank thinks back and realizes that Joe was the first one to mention the name. Maybe this is all some bizarre scam?

Dexter reappears with some paperwork in his hands. “Joe Hardy and Chet Morton?”

“Uh, well, I’m Joe Hardy, but Chet actually couldn’t make it. This is my brother, Frank.”

Dexter doesn’t answer.

“Uh…I hope it’s okay that he came instead! It’s just that we’ve been planning this trip for ages and Chet dropped out at the last minute and I already paid for the room, plus I really wanted to learn from Jacques Brunais, so I figured it wouldn’t be a huge deal—ow!”

Frank quickly moves his foot back, hoping Dexter missed that. Joe’s rambling gets on the nerves of even the most patient of saints, and since this apparently is Wickford Castle, he’d rather not get them kicked out.

Dexter fixes them with a long look, then says, “can I see some ID?”

Frank and Joe fumble around in their pockets, producing their licenses after a truly nerve-wracking amount of time. Joe’s leg immediately starts bouncing up and down, his eyes darting about the room. Positive that this will only make them look more suspicious, Frank tries to appear as boring and respectable as possible, folding his hands in his lap and sitting up perfectly straight.

Dexter surveys them with an impassive stare. Joe’s leg is just about to wriggle off his entire body when he finally passes back their licenses. “Here’s your room keys. Take these stairs to the second floor and go through the hallway on your left. Don’t lose the key—and for Pete’s sake, don’t leave the key in the room. I’m going to have enough to do without worrying about guests getting locked out.”

“Anything else I can do for you?” Dexter’s face obviously hints that he wants their answer to be in the negative.

“Oh!” says Joe, face lighting up. “Could we get something to eat?”

* * *

Early the next morning, Frank pulls himself out of bed, showers with his eyes half-closed, and then slips out the door in search of information about the blizzard. He's never been able to sleep well in unfamiliar beds, and hotels are no exception, so he might as well learn what he can now. He nearly forgets to grab a keycard on his way out, but he snatches it off the bureau at the last minute and glances at the front of the door to remind himself of the room number. #204, he thinks to himself, before heading downstairs to ask Dexter a few questions.

Dexter, as it happens, is not in a better mood since last night. “What can I do for you, Mr. Hardy?” he drawls, barely looking up from the papers at his desk.

“You could start by calling me Frank,” he says hopefully.

Dexter glares.

“Or not,” he murmurs under his breath. “I actually was wondering if you knew when the roads would be cleared?”

Dexter shakes his head. “Not today, that’s for sure. Probably not tomorrow either. We’re not exactly a high-priority, Mr. Hardy. There’s only seven people in the whole castle right now.”

Frank nods, failing to mask his unhappiness. “Right, well, that’s—that’s nice and cozy. I’ll just get to know some of the other guests, yeah?”

Dexter hmms and rifles through his papers in an obvious dismissal.

“Right,” Frank says again, this time with a sigh. He turns around and glances toward the lobby, where he can hear soft voices engaged in conversation. Well, _one_ soft voice at least.

The woman within his line of sight, with spiky red hair and an overly perky expression, speaks loudly enough for her voice to resonate throughout the first floor. “Just your average bump in the night sound effects. It’s probably just Dexter trying to spook up the hotel for the publicity!”

Frank winces and looks back at Dexter, but the old man is absorbed in his work—or at least, he’s pretending to be.

The other person sitting across from the woman is facing away from Frank, and their response is too quiet to be heard. He wonders if it would be odd to interrupt, but he’s not really in the mood for socializing right now anyway—he could just try to skirt around the pair and slide into the hallway he sees behind the redhead woman. Making up his mind to do just that, he enters near the front of the lobby, away from the fireplace, and peeks out of the corner of his eye to see—

“Nancy?”

“Frank?” There she is, smiling at him in surprise: Nancy Drew, in a navy cardigan and khaki pants, stands to hug him excitedly. He hugs back, but notices the other woman eyeing him with a more than polite level of interest. Suddenly a little uncomfortable, he lets go of Nancy.

“What are you doing here?” she exclaims, pulling away to grasp his forearms.

“Joe and I are on a ski trip,” he responds, still a little dazed by her sudden appearance. To find Nancy here, of all places, and just when he had resigned himself to a horribly boring trip! It was a stroke of luck for sure.

Nancy tilts her head to the side and widens her eyes. “I didn’t know you skied!”

He skirts around the implied question and aims for excitement. “Well, you know, Jacques Brunais is here. Can’t miss out on an opportunity like that!”

“Tell me about it,” purrs the redheaded woman.

Frank forces a chuckle. He’s feeling a little less than thrilled now: Jacques Brunais had never been a big selling point for him, but there’s something off about the other woman’s enthusiasm.

“This is Lisa Ostrum,” says Nancy, gesturing to the woman in the chair. “Lisa, this is my friend Frank Hardy.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says, sticking out a hand.

She smiles brightly back at him and returns the shake with surprising vigor. “Yeah, totally!”

“You’ll probably meet my brother, Joe, at some point. I’ll apologize in advance,” Frank says with a half-fake grimace.

Nancy lets out a soft laugh, but Lisa’s mirth is so loud, Frank swears it makes his ears ring. Lisa has a sort of grating, high-pitched giggle broken up by a loud honking noise. It goes on for far too long.

A muted silence descends on the three of them as Frank searches for a way out of this conversation. He can see Nancy fidgeting with the sleeve of her cardigan and looking away from them. He tries to catch her eye and signal that she should excuse herself and he’ll come along.

But just when Frank is thinking up some very uncharitable words for Lisa’s awkward behavior, she shows a flash of insight and moves to excuse herself. “Well, I’d better get going. I do need to get _some_ work done on this trip, and I know you lovebirds want your privacy!” She gives them an exaggerated wink and then sails out of the parlor and into the main hall.

Frank’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the comment. “Not very good at reading a room, is she?”

“She’s a little—unusual,” agrees Nancy. “But she was just trying to be friendly.”

Nancy, Frank finds, is always a little too willing to give people the benefit of the doubt...so long as they're not working a case.

“You and Joe must be so disappointed that all skiing is closed right now," she continues.

Terrifying visions of hitting the slopes with Nancy and falling flat on his face start to dance through his head. “To be honest, I don’t ski,” he confesses, deciding it’s best to come clean now rather than humiliate himself later. “Even after the snow clears up, I’m not sure what I’m gonna do here.”

"Oh," says Nancy, a little taken aback. "Then why come to a place that's famous for its skiing?"

"Joe," says Frank, which is really explanation enough.

Nancy must think so too, judging by the smile she’s wearing. She doesn’t push him any further on the skiing. “There’s some brochures out in the lobby! They should have a good list of activities that are, y’know, non-winter sport related. We could go through them together and come up with some ideas?”

“Yeah, that sounds great!” Frank moves to head into the lobby.

Nancy stops him with a light touch to his shoulder. “Oh, Mr. Egan wants me to run downstairs and grab some ski boots for one of the other guests here, so I should probably get that taken care of first."

"Sure, but...why are you doing that in the first place?"

“Well, he said he’s pretty swamped, so I offered to help him out so that he would fix my radiator sooner.”

Something about this is not sinking in for Frank, and it’s only making him feel more uneasy about Dexter. “He has you running errands so that he’ll fix your radiator?”

She laughs. “Well, when you say it like that it sounds pretty bad!”

He has a feeling it would probably sound bad no matter how he said it, but he's not going to mention it.

“Anyway, maybe the three of us can meet up for lunch and catch up? I’d love to hear what you and Joe have been working on lately!”

It strikes him that he’d almost entirely forgotten about Joe. “Yeah…yeah, lunch sounds great! Uh, we're in 204.”

"No way! I'm in 205. Kind of crazy coincidence, huh? See you later!" She turns toward the hallway off the side of the parlor, giving him a little wave over her shoulder before disappearing.

"Yeah, uh, see you!" He’s honestly still a little stunned to find her here, at a ski lodge in Wisconsin, of all places. That’s what he’s going to blame his stutter on. Just in case she asks him later.

* * *

Joe doesn’t pull himself out of bed until just past ten, wiggling his toes against the scratchy hotel sheets and feeling the residual disappointment from the night before.

No skiing with Jacques Brunais—what was even the point of schlepping out to Wisconsin then? He should have just canceled when Chet did. The two of them could be enjoying the _Die Hard_ marathon right now, but instead, Joe is in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do.

He sits up, pushes his hair out of his eyes, and surveys the room. Frank is already out of bed—no surprise there. The drapes are drawn shut, with the lack of light preventing him from really seeing anything around him. He fumbles about for the lamp switch on the bedside table. Warm yellow light floods the room, allowing him to get a good, long look at his new surroundings. Shag carpet. Beige duvet. Floral wallpaper. Furniture identical to that found in a Super 8.

There is simply no way around it: it’s hideous.

Still, there’s no use sitting around moping about it. Surely not everyone who comes to Wickford is here to ski! Surely there’s something else that people do for fun! And maybe some of the other guests are interesting. Maybe some of the guests are girls around his age? He rolls out of bed and throws his clothes on, running a hand through his hair to get that artfully tousled look. No matter what happens, no matter what kind of awfulness he's confronted with, he's going to salvage this vacation.

Frank is coming in as he’s leaving. “Hey, you’ll never guess—”

It’s bound to be some sort of buzz-killing information, and he’s really not in the mood for that, so…“Sorry, Frank! I’m on a mission to find some excitement. See you at lunch!”

“Joe—”

The sound of the door closing cuts Frank off. 

He can admit that the actual _castle_ part of the castle lives up to its promise. There's impossibly high ceilings, old portraits of stuffy eighteenth century aristocrats, and best of all, a double staircase. It’s late enough in the day that he doesn’t see any reason to be quiet about coming down the stairs, clearing the last three steps with a huge leap. When he hits the ground, he hears someone loudly clearing their throat. Heart sinking, he turns to see Dexter eyeing him from behind the desk. 

He feigns innocence. “Morning, Mr. Egan! What’s up?”

"Mr. Hardy. Any exciting plans for the day?" Dexter's tone is practically dripping in sarcasm.

He doesn’t like where this is going. “Uh, well, I was gonna have my first ski lesson with Jacques Brunais today, but I guess now I don’t have anything going on. Got any ideas?”

“Well, now that you mention it: a guest in the room next to yours, 205, has been complaining about their radiator. Normally I’d get up there and fix it myself, but I don’t really have the time thanks to all this mess.”

He _really_ doesn’t like where this is going.

“But the girl has been pretty insistent about the repair, and it’d really be a load off my mind if someone could get up there and take a look at it, since it’s probably an easy fix. And since it _is_ the room right next to yours…” Dexter trails off, drumming his fingers on the desk.

“Uh, Frank’s really more of the handyman type than I am,” he lies. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that if he gives in to this one request, Dexter will only come up with a few more.

Dexter fixes him with a stony stare. “Well, then pass on the message for me,” he orders, shuffling through the papers on his desk without even looking at them.

“Right…I will go do that now…” Joe says, backing away from the desk while maintaining (deeply uncomfortable) eye contact. He edges a little to the left, and as soon as his foot nudges the bottom stair, he’s sprinting upwards, taking them two at a time. He swears it’s not because he’s afraid of Dexter—that would be crazy, after all!

Something about him just seems a little…off, that’s all. Yeah. 

Frank doesn’t agree, of course. “Joe, he’s just a grumpy old man,” he says exasperatedly, barely looking up from the brochures spread out on his bed. “There’s nothing off about him. But listen, when I was in the lobby, I ran into—”

“Frank, come on! He’s totally creepy!” Joe nearly smacks the bureau with his hand in his frustration. “Not to mention the way he keeps trying to give me things to do to get me out of his way. He wants you to fix someone’s radiator, by the way. Whoever lives in 205.”

Frank pauses. “205? And are you sure he wanted me to do it and not you?”

“Well, we’re kind of a package deal, aren’t we?” says Joe evasively. “I’d hurry up and get it done, it sounds like whoever’s staying there’s a real piece of work.”

Now Frank has the oddest of expressions on his face. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, Dexter made it sound like he didn’t have time to talk to me about the castle because he’s so busy taking care of unreasonable guests.”

“Can’t imagine why someone wouldn’t want you constantly poking around and asking questions.”

Joe is very much not in the mood to deal with this. “Will you fix the radiator or not?”

“Sure," says Frank, turning back to his brochure.

Joe, relieved by this easy acquiescence, slides right back out of their room. It’s only when he’s back out in the hall that he remembers his boredom. Now that he’s given Frank the grunt work, he’s still got to scrounge around for something to do, ideally without reminding Dexter of his existence. His original goal of finding a girl his age is still valid, he decides, and the only way to make it happen is to explore the rest of the castle and see who he can find. He turns to the hall down his left, but the castle seems to be a bit of a ghost town: even when he strains his ears, he can't pick up any voices.

What he does hear is a persistent _click-clack-click-clack_ that's coming from the other side of the second floor. He rounds the corner, unsure what he's about to find, and—

—it’s none other than Nancy Drew, standing outside room 214.

“Nancy!”

“Joe, there you are—”

“Aw man, am I glad to see you!” He pulls her into a hug. “Are you working a case?”

“No, this is actually just a vacation—”

He refuses to let this minor detail drag him back down to the fiery pits of boredom. “Oh, same as us! Me and Frank, I mean. Wait! You gotta come say hi."

“Oh, but I already—”

“No, no time for that,” Joe cuts in. He takes her by the arm and begins pulling her in the direction of their room. “Frank’s gonna be so excited to see you! Come on, he’s in room 205, fixing the radiator.”

Nancy trails him, looking a little dazed; Joe figures she's just still shocked to run into him here, a dusty old castle in Wisconsin. If she's reacting this way, he can't wait to see the look on Frank's face when he realizes that they're snowed in at Wickford with _Nancy Drew_. The door to 205 is propped open, so he and Nancy are able to glide right in.

“Frank! You’ll never believe who I just ran into!” He gestures wildly toward her like she’s the grand prize on a game show.

To his disappointment, Frank only looks up from the radiator for a moment. “Hey Nance,” he says casually, turning back to his work without another word.

“Hey Frank,” she returns, perching on the windowsill next to him. “Do you need a screwdriver? I think I have one in my bag.”

Frank scratches his head. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Joe’s the one who’s supposed to be doing this right now, not me.”

“ _What_?” Joe squawks.

“Why would Dexter ask you to ask _me_ to fix the radiator instead of just asking you directly?” says Frank, rolling his eyes. “Especially considering he just saw me a few minutes earlier!”

“Okay, first of all, he asked because he clearly picked up on the fact that you’re the more responsible one here,” he lies. “And secondly, why is it that you’re completely unsurprised to see Nancy here? Have you two been communicating behind my back?”

Suddenly things are starting to sink in. Nancy hadn’t looked at all shocked to see him in the hall. Plus, Room 205 is nearly identical to 204, except that it’s a single—and there’s some _very_ familiar looking luggage resting in the corner. “Nance, is this _your_ room?”

“Mmhmm. Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Uh…” Honestly, he’s feeling a little vindicated that Dexter doesn’t like Nancy, of all people. Clearly the man just refuses to like anyone. “No reason.”

* * *

After the excitement of seeing an old face wears off, Nancy sits on the edge of her bed while Frank bangs away at the radiator and Joe leafs through pamphlets advertising all the tours they could have taken if not for the blizzard. She’s wearing the expression that means her detective sense is tingling, but she keeps her tone light as she asks, “Thoughts on Dexter?”

Unsurprisingly, Frank delivers a measured response. “Haven’t really spoken to him enough to get a clear picture, honestly.”

Also unsurprisingly, Joe is less measured. “I’m _not_ a fan,” he declares emphatically.

“Gee, I wonder why,” Frank mutters, bending his head over the radiator again.

“It’s not because of that—well, not just because of that.”

Nancy looks back and forth between the two of them. “I think I missed something.”

Joe makes a show of folding his hands atop the table and clearing his throat. “When we first arrived at this frozen wasteland, I ordered a Fried Bologna Sandwich Supreme, and I paid _extra_ for those potato chip sprinkles. But when my order finally arrived a full two hours later, what did I get? A decidedly _not_ Supreme sandwich with no potato chip sprinkles!”

Frank shoots Nancy a pained look and mimes crying.

Joe, still absorbed in recounting his tale of woe, fails to notice. “By the way, for a place built by the guy who invented chocolate milk, they’re suspiciously lacking in chocolate milk!”

“You’re the one who wanted to come here,” Frank points out, tired of his brother’s complaining.

“That’s because I thought I would get to ski all day,” says Joe. “Instead, we’re shut up in a dusty old castle that may or may not have some weird connection to Marie Antoinette, along with the narrator from _Alfred Hitchcock Presents_.”

“I’m not sure if Dexter’s quite—rotund enough to be Hitchcock,” says Nancy.

“Whatever…this vacation is turning into a total disaster.” Joe flops dramatically on the bed and throws an arm over his eyes. “We might as well just sit around the fire, drinking hot chocolate, contemplating the emptiness of our lives.”

Nancy quiets Frank with a look when he opens his mouth to respond. She crosses the room to sit on the bed next to Joe and pats him on the shoulder. “ _Or_ ,” she says, drawing out the word teasingly, “we could solve a mystery.”

Joe moves his arm a little and cracks one eye open. “…I’m listening.”

“Dexter must have told you two that the library is off limits? Lisa told me it’s because someone broke in and vandalized the place—and Dexter thinks it was one of us.”

Joe sits up fully and contemplates this for a moment. “Alright…not the _most_ exciting start, as far as mysteries go, but it’s better than nothing.”

“There’s more. One of the guests, a Professor Hotchkiss, is claiming that she’s been robbed. The thing is, she won’t say what was stolen, or even open the door to talk to Dexter about it!”

Even Frank is starting to take an interest now. “You think they’re connected?”

She shrugs. “There aren’t very many people in the castle right now. What are the chances that we could have two completely unrelated crimes in one place within two days?”

Frank puts down the wrench and stands to look out the window. “No one can get in or out, thanks to this storm. This might actually be the perfect weather for a case!”

“Are you sure some snow didn’t get in your ears and clog your brain?” says Joe.

“Think about it: there’s no chance of the culprit getting away. They’re stuck in here with us!”

Nancy sits on the edge of the bed and rummages around in her bag until she comes up with her journal. “So—we’ve got four people in the castle right now, four suspects: Professor Hotchkiss, Jacques Brunais, Lisa Ostrum, and of course, Dexter.”

“A professor, huh?” Joe muses. “Could always try the ol’ gap year trick.” He jabs Frank in the ribs.

Frank rolls his eyes again. “That was _one_ _time_ , Joe.”

“And it worked like a charm!” Joe protests. “Anyway, I call Jacques! Haven’t met him yet, but he _is_ one of the greatest skiers in the world.”

“I didn’t realize your ski skill had an inverse relationship with the likelihood of you stealing,” says Frank.

“It does when you’re famous,” he counters. He digs out a magazine with Brunais’s face on the cover and waves it directly in front of Frank’s face. “Think about it: Jacques Brunais has fame and fortune. What could he possibly need to steal?”

“That’s weird,” says Nancy. “When I spoke to Lisa earlier, she told me that Jacques ruined his career at the last Winter Olympics.”

Frank huffs out a laugh.

“Okay, sure, the pressure got to him and—he choked, but you know, that happens to the best of us. It doesn’t make him any less talented!”

“What, _exactly_ , happened to him? This is the first I’m hearing of him, by the way,” he adds in Nancy’s direction. “I’m not exactly caught up on my Olympic skiers.”

“I hadn’t heard of him before either,” Nancy says in a stage-whisper.

Joe’s magazine flutters to the floor. “You two are hopeless.”

* * *

It’s a good thing Nancy dug up this case for them, because Joe is finding Wickford to be startlingly boring. Skiing and snowboarding are shut down until further notice, and the castle has very few real amenities, especially with the library off limits. Joe doesn’t want to seem snobbish, but their room doesn’t even have a television!

He spends his first afternoon at Wickford wandering the halls to get a lay of the land. Once he’s finished, he slouches aimlessly around the second floor. Frank, finally finished with Nancy’s radiator, emerges from their room and appears similarly unenthused, but that’s no big surprise considering his brother’s reluctance to join this trip in the first place.

When Joe had bothered Dexter for something to do, the older man had quickly gotten annoyed and simply tossed him a checkers board before declaring that he had “other things to deal with.” The Hardy brothers, unwilling to spend another moment in the dullness that is their room, set up the board in the main hallway and sit on the hard, stone floor.

They’re starting their third game when Nancy comes hurrying down the hall, cheeks flushed with the glow that follows a new twist in a case. “You’ll never guess what I found!”

Joe nearly upends the entire board in his eagerness to listen. It wouldn't matter if Nancy's big news was a slight change in the weather, starved for excitement as he was, but he had a feeling it was something a little better. “What is it?”

“I went down to the locker room to open mine, but I must have gotten switched around because I ended up opening Lisa's locker by mistake. And guess what?"

For once, Frank is the one who comes across as impatient. "Well, don't leave us in suspense!"

"She has all these fake IDs and passports—plus, she _lied_ to me about not being able to speak Spanish. I saw a letter in there written entirely in Spanish.”

Frank frowns. “Why lie about not being able to speak another language?”

“I asked her about it on my way up here—”

“Just…flat out asked her?” says Joe, confused. Normally, he and Frank have to tiptoe around their accusations in case someone starts getting stabby.

Nancy shrugs one shoulder. “Sure. Anyway, she said that disguises are necessary for any good journalist.”

“Wait, Lisa’s a journalist?” he repeats, now even more confused. He’s been avoiding Lisa ever since Frank mentioned the other woman’s grating laugh, but now he’s getting intrigued.

“Photojournalist,” Nancy amends. “She’s here on assignment. Apparently, she mostly takes photos of old mansions in the Midwest, although I’m not sure there are really enough of those to make a career out of it.”

“So she’s a freelance photographer. I can’t imagine that’s a particularly lucrative job—maybe she’s trying to create a story around Wickford so that her photos seem more interesting and valuable?” Frank theorizes.

Joe folds his arms across his chest and leans against the wall, lost in thought. “Whatever her reasoning, it definitely proves that there’s more to Lisa than meets the eye. We’ll have to keep a close watch on her.”

Nancy makes a noise of agreement, then says, “Dexter wants our dinner orders, by the way.”

“Well, I’m _not_ getting the bologna sandwich,” says Joe.

Frank rolls his eyes. “Let it go, Joe."

Nancy gives him a commiserating pat on the arm before turning to Frank. “He wants someone to get Hotchkiss’s order, too. I thought maybe you’d want to take this one, Frank, since you wanted to try talking to her. Don’t be surprised if she doesn’t open the door, though.”

“Great,” mutters Frank, looking none too pleased at this last comment. He stretches his arms far enough to make an audible popping noise echo in the hall, then sets off in the direction of Hotchkiss’s room.

Joe, for lack of ideas, shakes the checkers board in Nancy’s direction and says, “what do you say, Drew? Care to try your chances with the reigning champion?”

She laughs. “Come on, Joe. We can head down to the parlor so you can meet Lisa, then we’ll go see Jacques about getting me a new locker.”

It’s something to do, at least. He cleans up the checkers game, tucks the board under his arm, and follows her toward the back stairs. It’s hard to imagine that this is the vacation he and Chet had spent hours planning and weeks looking forward to. The only part of it that’s survived the transfer from dreams to reality is— 

He stops dead in the middle of the hall. “Wait!”

Nancy turns back, blue eyes wide and alarmed. “What is it?”

“Do you think I look presentable enough to meet an Olympic skier?”

* * *

Joe decides that as much as he dislikes Lisa, he _hates_ Jacques Brunais. And it’s not because he ignores him in favor of leering at Nancy! …well, okay, so it’s not _just_ because of that.

“Guy is a total creep!” He tells Nancy as the elevator begins the slow climb to the second floor. “And did you hear what he said about the guests who don’t know how to ski?”

“He definitely thinks highly of himself,” she says diplomatically. “But according to Bess and George, he was a huge deal in the world of competitive skiing. That kind of adoration can really go to someone’s head.”

The elevator reaches its destination and Joe angrily shoves the grate open. “Just because he used to be famous doesn’t mean he can treat us like that… _me_ like that, I guess, since he seems to like you well enough.”

And yeah, he definitely has some idea as to why _that_ is. He’s not a fan of the looks Jacques gave Nancy, even if she pretended not to notice. Maybe the man’s just used to girls swooning into a dead faint, what with the accent and the fame, but he’s considerably lacking in charm, and Nancy’s too smart to fall for his little game.

Joe is still complaining as they trudge back to their rooms. “And what was all that junk about ‘American girls,’ anyway? I hope Isabelle realizes how awful he is before the wedding.” An idea pops into his head. “Hey, wait a minute…what if we found her?”

She raised her eyebrows. “You want to find a girl who goes to the University of Wisconsin by only her first name? A little much, wouldn’t you say? Besides, you never know—maybe he’s different with her.”

“I really hope so,” says Joe, “for her sake, at least.”

* * *

The next morning, Nancy enters room 204 in the hopes of hearing some new information about the castle’s most eccentric inhabitant.

Frank is bent over a scrap of paper, sketching out his best guess of the outside of the castle. It had been impossible to see with the blizzard before, and he’s not been able to go out since then, so this question of Hotchkiss’s is really pushing him to use some unorthodox methods.

“I’m a little concerned,” he admits. “I told Hotchkiss that I wanted to study French and French History, but I don’t actually know that much about it. I’m not sure if these questions she’s giving me are all that advanced—what if it’s actually basic stuff and I’m taking hours to get an answer back to her? Won’t that blow my cover?”

Nancy considers this for a moment. “What kinds of questions is she asking you?”

As if he had expected that question, he pulls out a desk drawer and passes her several other pieces of paper. “I kept copies in case they ended up being useful later. From what I can tell, though, it’s all just history.”

Nancy sets all the questions down on the desk, spread out so they can all be seen at once. “Hmm,” she murmurs. “’How old was Marie when she married Louis?’ Shouldn’t Professor Hotchkiss know this herself? If she really is an expert on Marie Antoinette, she would probably know what year Marie was born and what year they got married, at the bare minimum.”

It’s a good point. Frank’s embarrassed to admit that he didn’t think of that. He had been so focused on getting Hotchkiss to speak with him that he didn’t stop to wonder at the hoops she was having him jump through first.

“Do you think she’s a fraud, then?” he says.

She shakes her head immediately. “A friend of a friend goes to the same university that Hotchkiss teaches at, and I asked if he had heard of her. Apparently, she’s a pretty big deal in academia, so that part checks out, at least. It _is_ possible that she’s not the one who wrote her work. That would explain why she doesn’t know some basic details, but then why bother with creating this image of a brilliant but forgetful professor?

“This one’s a little off, too, by the way.” She taps a finger on the page that reads ‘How many days before her 38th birthday was Marie executed?’ “That sounds like more of a minor detail you can place in during editing, not an essential fact to rest your entire thesis on.”

Now that Nancy’s pointed it out, Frank’s a little embarrassed he didn’t notice. “Honestly, I didn’t think very much of it until now. She’s very…scatterbrained.”

She perches herself on the edge of the desk and turns her full attention to him. “In what way?”

“For one thing, she keeps forgetting my name.” He grimaces. “So far, I’ve gotten Fred, Hank, and Fabio.”

She makes a valiant effort at looking serious, but he can see a twitch at the corner of her lips that betrays her amusement. “Frank,” she says, meeting his eyes. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are absolutely not a Fabio.”

He feels himself loosen a little at this. “Crush my dreams, why don’t you.”

“ _So_ sorry!” She can’t even apologize without laughing. “Well, either she really is just _that_ bad at remembering things, or she’s trying to keep you distracted.”

“If it’s the latter, it’s working. I hardly got any sleep this morning since Joe insisted on getting up early.”

“Joe?” Nancy’s mouth goes round in shock. “Joe Hardy?”

“Believe me, I was just as surprised as you are.” Thinking about his early start just reminds Frank of how tired he is. “He’s never mastered the concept of quietly getting ready, so by the time he was out the door, _I_ was wide awake. Gave me plenty of time to think the case over, though.”

“Yeah? Any sudden epiphanies?” Her tone is slightly teasing, but he can tell she’s hopeful that he might have genuinely made a breakthrough.

“There is something bugging me,” he says slowly. “If Wickford’s been around for decades, why is that there’s only recently been rumors of a haunting? And why is all this crazy stuff only happening now?”

“I was thinking the same thing, so I looked through the Wickford brochure again and I found something. Christi Lane wants to open the tower to guests,” says Nancy. “It’s a surefire way to bring in money from tourists.”

He sits up straight. “That means if someone thinks there’s something important in the tower—”

“—then they better hurry up and find it before Ms. Lane does,” finishes Nancy. 

"Huh," says Frank. "You know, if the tower was open, and if the library wasn't vandalized, I think I'd actually be having a great time on this trip, blizzard and all. It's really nice...peaceful."

It's the truth. He's actually having kind of a nice time as is, even if Hotchkiss's questions can be maddening. There's a lot of sitting in front of the fire with a book, which has always been good. It's especially good considering there's no one around to distract him. There's a solitude that lets him completely unwind.

“I don’t know,” says Nancy. “It feels so—lonely, here. It doesn’t help that everyone is on their own…no families, no couples, just a bunch of strangers. That’s why I’m glad you and Joe are here,” she adds belatedly. “Otherwise, I have no idea what I’d be doing to pass the time!”

There’s no doubt in Frank’s mind. “You’d be solving this case.”

“Maybe,” she admits. “But it’d take me a lot longer by myself. And it’s nice getting to bounce ideas off people.”

She's smiling at him. His throat is suddenly very dry and he wonders if she can tell that he’s nervous. And _why_ is he nervous? There’s nothing to be nervous about, just him and Nancy discussing the case like they’ve done before.

The door opens with a slam. “Just got back from pumping Lisa for information,” Joe announces, flopping stomach first onto his bed.

He quickly pushes back his nerves and refocuses on the case. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well?”

“Frank, this woman is like the definition of making a lot of noise but saying nothing. I’m not sure there was any more substance than you’d find in a puff piece on a children's choir."

“Did you learn anything at all?” asks Nancy hopefully.

Joe snickers. “Just that she thinks you and Frank make a cute couple.”

Frank feels a headache coming on and decides to change the subject. “Watch out for Dexter. I can hear everything Lisa says from the front desk, so I’m sure he can too.”

“Maybe he’s just old and can’t hear,” theorizes Joe.

Nancy purses her lips. “Maybe, but it’s worth keeping an eye on him. As the caretaker, he's got access to pretty much everywhere, so there's no telling what kinds of things he can pick up.”

“Do you think that means _Lisa_ can hear _Dexter_ , too?”

“Would she even bother to listen?” says Frank, growing more annoyed the more they talk about Lisa. The lack of sleep must really be getting to him, he decides.

“She’s a journalist,” says Joe matter-of-factly. “They’re naturally snoopy.”

He’s pretty sure snoopy isn’t even a word, and it’s certainly not the kind of thing you can rest a person’s entire character on. “Joe—"

Joe turns on the puppy dog eyes. “Come on, Nance, back me up on this!”

“I’d say journalists are pretty snoopy.” She tosses Joe a wink and adds, “of course, no one’s quite as snoopy as us.”

* * *

Late that night—or early the next morning—the three of them are huddled together in front of the fire in the parlor. Nancy has managed to scrounge up hot chocolate from… _somewhere_ , and all three of them are wearing thick woolen socks and wrapped in warm, fuzzy blankets. This, at least, is something like what Joe had in mind for this vacation, although he’d imagined it would be happening after a full day of skiing and not after a midnight dash through the air vents and into the library.

“Are we all in agreement that keeping a scrapbook on all the bad stuff your kid has done is extremely weird?” says Joe, taking a long sip from his hot chocolate.

“It’s definitely _unusual_ ,” says Nancy.

Frank sets down his mug and scratches at his jaw. “Kind of explains a few things about Dexter, doesn’t it? It sounds like his dad was seriously out there, and it might have affected him as a kid.”

“Why come back here though?” wonders Nancy. “Just nostalgia? Or does Dexter think this place should be his, and he’s come here to ruin things for Christi Lane?”

“He was obviously looking for something in the library—maybe that secret room?”

Something about that just isn't adding up for Frank. “But why would Dexter need to destroy the library? He works here, so he’s got easy access, and I doubt this place is so busy that he can’t just go down there and look whenever he wants.”

Frank turns to Nancy to get her opinion. There’s a dollop of whipped cream on her nose, but he’s not about to ruin the fun and tell her.

She huffs, frustrated. “I wish I could find a number for Ms. Lane. If we could just get a ballpark figure for how many guests the castle usually has, we might have a better idea of motives _and_ opportunities, and maybe figure out—wait! Did you guys hear that?”

Soft footsteps are coming closer. The three of them still and trade panicked glances.

Frank checks his watch. "It's just after three. That must be her!”

Sure enough, Hotchkiss shuffles in, still wearing her house slippers. She blinks owlishly at the sight of them, hanging off the back of the couch in anticipation of her entrance. “Did I forget a meeting?”

Frank decides it's up to him to make introductions, just in case Hotchkiss suddenly retreats back into her shell again. “Hi, Professor Hotchkiss,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought my brother and our friend down here. They both wanted to meet you.”

“This is Joe, and this is Nancy.” He makes sure to enunciate the names very carefully this time, although he has a feeling it won’t make much difference.

Sure enough, Hotchkiss shakes Nancy’s hand and says, “Oh, what a pleasure! Any friend of Freddy’s is a friend of mine, Mandy.”

Behind him, he can hear a sharp intake of breath that means Joe is trying his best not to laugh.

“And, um—terribly sorry, what did you say your name was again?”

“Joe,” he says, shaking her hand and smiling a little harder than the occasion warrants, “Joe Hardy.”

“Joe,” she repeats. “I’ll be sure to remember that, dear.”

Now it’s Frank’s turn to hide his laugh; Hotchkiss is so distracted by her work that it’s a wonder she remembers speaking with him at all. The chances of her remembering Joe’s name are slim to none.

“Now what can I do for you three, hmm? You’ve all got that inquisitive look I like to see in young people!”

Nancy, perhaps sensing that neither Frank nor Joe is going to get a question out with a straight face at the moment, takes the lead. “Well, Frank has been telling us a little about your work. It sounds very fascinating! What made you want to be a professor?”

“Excellent question, Mandy!”

Joe chokes on his hot chocolate.

“The most wonderful thing about history is the way it changes. All you young people think that the facts are the facts, but history, with scarcely an exception, ought to be rewritten. As many histories exist as there are historians."

“That’s not to say you go casting about your story all pell-mell. But there are shades to the truth, you know, and we each get to choose which shade we like best. We’re all working from the same information. At the end of the day, it’s a historian’s job to reconstruct as full a life as they can from the fragments.”

Hotchkiss’s eyes are shining now. Frank hadn’t seriously considered studying history—it was just a line he fed her in the hopes of getting her to open up—but he’d be lying if he said she wasn’t convincing him. And the more she talks, the more he doubts their fraud theory.

“A professor—a good professor, which I think I’ll allow myself to be called—teaches students not just that idea, but that process. The joy of teaching is reading twenty different versions of the same event, and knowing that with each word we write, we’ve given a little bit of ourselves away. You make yourself vulnerable—every historian has to have a bit of empathy for their subject, but which part do you empathize with? And when you’ve written it all down, it becomes clear who _you_ are, perhaps even more than what your contribution to scholarship is.”

“Of course, the more well-known the topic, the harder it is to share a truly unique vision with the world.” She pauses, glances around, then lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And yet, I think that I may finally have my own version to put forward—only I need one more fragment to make that argument.”

“Professor Hotchkiss believes that Marie Antoinette’s diary may still exist,” Frank explains.

“Shh, Francis! Do keep your voice down!”

Joe just barely manages to transform his laugh into a cough. Frank gives him a dirty look anyway.

He does manage to fool Hotchkiss, though, who stops and peers at him with concern. “Joe, dear, are you alright?”

“Oh, I’m just fine, Professor! Don’t worry about me,” he says, grinning like a loon. “Please, go on.”

Frank catches Nancy smothering her own smile out of the corner of his eye.

Hotchkiss doesn’t need too much prodding to get back in the swing of things. “As I was saying, I am convinced that there exists, possibly in this very castle, a piece of evidence that validates the argument I’ve been formulating for my entire career! And between the four of us, that’s quite a long time.” She winks at them.

Her words get Frank thinking: if she’s truly been working on this idea for so long, what will it be like to finally have proof? Will she be pleased to have her theory vindicated? Or will she be at loose ends, having hit her career peak?

Nancy’s thoughts are apparently running in the same direction. “What will you do after publishing your book?”

“Oh, Candy, I try not to think about it!" Hotchkiss laughs, waving one careless hand. "Live in the present, you know. But most likely, I’ll find a new fixation that speaks to me. I’m a very big fan of the mysterious and the unexplained—luckily, I have the entirety of human history at my disposal!”

* * *

For the second time in three days, Joe is in serious danger of freezing to death.

“We are _never_ taking advice from Lisa again,” Joe declares firmly, teeth chattering.

Next to him, Nancy makes a soft noise of agreement and moves a little closer to him.

“Lemme check my watch,” she mutters. “Alright, Jacques is usually pretty prompt, and he should be coming in for work in the next ten minutes or so. We might be able to just wait it out.”

Truly, it sounds like a miserable idea, but it’s not like anything better is coming to mind. He leans against the wall of the castle and settles in for the long haul. “Any fun campfire stories to share? Preferably ones that involve tropical climates."

“Well, we might as well take advantage of this and go over the case again,” she suggests.

Not quite what he had in mind, but hey, he can adapt. “Maybe I should have been the one to talk with Hotchkiss, seeing as how she actually remembers my name. Usually Frank’s better with the academics than I am, but I guess she’s not your typical professor.”

Nancy stuffs her hands in the pockets of her coat. “It’s good that one of us is getting somewhere with a suspect. Lately I feel like we’ve all just been talking in circles.”

“Dug up any more dirt on Lisa?”

“No,” she says ruefully. “After I caught her with all those other passports and IDs, she’s been pretty careful around me. And since all three of us have met her by now, it won’t do us any good to have somebody else try and talk to her. Honestly, I was surprised she was willing to tell me about seeing Dexter out here. Although since we’ve been locked out…”

“You think it was Lisa?” Joe finds himself a little disappointed by the idea, if only because it seems so simple. Lisa’s strange, but he’d like to think that the whole thing’s a bit more complex than her telling them to go outside and then locking them out.

Nancy, however, is clearly a graduate of the Occam’s Razor School of Detective Theory. “She _is_ the only one who knew we were coming out here,”

“I dunno,” says Joe. “It’s like Frank said—Dexter can probably hear her from the desk. Jacques might have been somewhere in the basement when we came out. And you never know if Hotchkiss is around.”

“That’s true,” she says, expression giving away her doubt.

There’s not much else to say. They’ve uncovered a (frankly embarrassingly) small amount of information about the suspects. It’s not enough to definitively pin it on any of them, but it’s also not enough to clear them. Joe generally hates this part of the case: all the waiting around for someone else to make a move and give the game away.

In the lull of the conversation, he turns his attention to their surroundings. For the most part, it’s pretty barren: nothing but white, as far as the eye can see. The longer he looks, though, the more he finds little specks of color pop out at him. There’s the green of the pine trees, the warm grey of the stone walls to the garden, the little red bird trying to peck at the frozen ground – and no people, not a soul for miles, just him and Nancy and the endless snow, enveloped in the proof of their own insignificance. If he couldn’t see their breath puffing out little clouds in air, he’d wonder if they were there at all, or if it was all just some strange dream.

“You know,” he says. His voice sounds distant to his ears. “You know, it’s actually kinda pretty out here. We haven’t been able to just slow down and—and appreciate how beautiful it is.”

He thinks Nancy is smiling at him, but it’s a little hard to tell. “I’d appreciate it a lot more if we were inside, all warm and toasty.”

Joe wants to smile back, but he can’t seem to make his face move the right way, stiff and unyielding as his muscles are. “Yeah, but you know what? I think maybe I’m starting to get used to it. I don’t even really feel cold anymore.”

Her face drops. “Oh, no. Joe, that’s not good—really, _really_ not good.”

“No, I think I’m getting stronger,” he insists, because he is. He can’t wait to tell Frank about this. He’s spent so long outside that he’s basically impervious to the cold, like a superhero from one of those schlocky Saturday morning cartoons.

There’s something touching him. He opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and sees Nancy squeezing his arms with her hands. “Wha’ are you doin’?”

“You’re not supposed to rub the skin of anyone with hypothermia, but I’m trying to share body heat somehow.”

“Hy’thermia?” says Joe. “I don’t have ‘thermia.”

She checks her watch again. “Jacques was supposed to be here by now.”

This whole waiting for Jacques thing is getting old. They’ve been out there for a while, and Joe’s really tired. Besides, it’s not all that important anymore. There is nothing but white snow and heavy eyes and warm, warm hands…

“Don’t fall asleep, Joe, okay? _Joe_!”

He opens his eyes again. “Mmkay.”

“ _Help_!” Nancy is screaming and pounding wildly on the door. “Somebody help!”

It all seems like a bit of an overreaction to Joe, who’s actually starting to feel hot. He tries to grasp the zipper pull with his fingers, hoping to let a little air into his stuffy coat, but his fingers won’t curl around it. He bats at the pull uselessly.

“’m hot,” he tells Nancy.

“I know, but just—just hang on, okay?”

The last thing he remembers is the way she screams at the top of her lungs: “HELP!”

* * *

He feels the cold right down to his bones.

It’s been a few hours since Frank opened the door for the two of them, but it hasn’t been a nice, pleasant time indoors. Frank is fussing like a mother hen, and Nancy’s not much better. Dexter had even been concerned enough to bring him some soup, without the usual snide comment about his appetite.

He’s propped up in a comfy chair right by the radiator in their room, half a dozen blankets piled on his shoulders, trying not to think about what a close call that was. Frank had murmured something about frostbite early on, but thankfully Joe’s fingers had returned to their normal color and he could bend them pretty easily again.

“We’re lucky I woke up in time to see your note,” says Frank.

His brother’s been saying some variation of that exact sentence since they first got inside, and Joe’s starting to get a little sick of the ‘I told you so’ note ringing in his voice. “What _I_ don’t understand is how Nancy handled it fine and I almost turned into a human ice sculpture.”

Nancy crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the door. “Probably because I know better than to go outside in the middle of winter without a hat or gloves.”

“Damn it, Joe!”

“Can I help it if the hat Aunt Trudy made for me is too small?” Joe holds up a hand belatedly. “Don’t say it—”

“Proving that he has a stupidly big head,” says Frank, because his brother is just _oh so original_ and certainly hasn’t made that joke before. Of course, he hasn’t made that joke in front of Nancy before, who reacts with a poorly-concealed smile. “What happened to the mittens she made you?”

“I lost one at the airport,” says Joe. “It looks stupid to wear just one.”

“I told her she should have put them on a string,” mutters Frank.

“Can we _please_ just get back to the case?”

Frank is clearly unwilling to stop humiliating him, but Nancy, darling only child that she is, graciously intervenes on his behalf. “I’m pretty sure Jacques is the one making those strange noises at night.”

“What makes you say that?” says Frank, attention officially diverted. 

“I heard them earlier when I went looking for blankets downstairs. It couldn't have been anyone else. Lisa had just finished trying to pump me for gossip about you, I heard Hotchkiss typing when I came down the stairs, and I passed Dexter with the soup just before I heard it.”

Joe shifts underneath his blanket pile. “Where was it coming from?”

“It was hard to tell, honestly, but it must have been the tower.” Nancy sets down her own blanket, folds it into a neat square, and reaches for her jacket. “I’m going to go down and ask him about it—Frank, do you think you can handle the patient?”

Joe ignores the jab. “Hang on, why don’t you let me be the one to ask him?”

“You’re kidding,” says Nancy.

“Nance, come on! He’s _so_ creepy around you—I know it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll go—”

“He _hates_ you,” says Nancy, shaking her head. “Even if he were willing to tell you about whatever it is, I’d have a better shot getting more information out of him.”

“I’ll go,” interrupts Frank.

Nancy and Joe both turn to him in surprise.

“What?” he huffs, standing up and patting down his pockets for his room key. “Obviously neither of you wants to go, and I haven’t done much other than badger Hotchkiss this whole time. Might as well be me.”

“Are you sure?” says Nancy, already sitting back down. “He can be a little—difficult…”

“Positive,” he says firmly. “Besides, you two should probably rest for the night. I cranked up the radiator, Nancy brought up the blankets, and Dexter said he’d be back with tea and more soup later, so as long as you don’t do something stupid—like, I don’t know, go outside in just a thin jacket…”

Joe shoots him a glare, for lack of a good comeback.

Frank opens the door and turns back to say, “Just do me a favor and try to stay out of trouble.”

* * *

When Frank wakes up, the first thing he registers is the pounding in his head. The second thing is that Nancy is sitting right beside his bed, head bent over her case journal. He takes a minute to absorb the scene: the warmth of the bed, the scent of pine needles, Nancy’s hair glowing golden in the afternoon sunlight, the furrow in her brow as she thinks of what to write…

When his parched throat finally becomes too much to ignore, he clears his throat.

The scene is broken immediately—her head snaps up, concern immediately overtaking any sense of peace. “Frank! You’re awake—how are you feeling?”

He musters up a smile. “Thirsty.”

“Oh! Of course.” She jumps up from her chair and reaches for a glass of water on the bedside table.

He needs her help to sit up, which is more than a little embarrassing, but the water is so cool and soothing down his throat that he stops caring.

He lets out a long sigh. “Alright, what happened?”

Nancy shifts uneasily in her chair. “Are you, y’know, awake awake?”

“As opposed to not-awake awake?”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then. Let me run and get Joe, he’s just next door.”

Frank waits patiently for her return, still a little bemused as to how he ended up like this. Raising a hand to his head, his fingers graze the (unfortunately familiar) feel of a gauze dressing. A head wound, then.

 _Oh joy_ , he thinks bitterly. That means Joe’s trailing him by two now, and he’ll probably never hear the end of it.

When his brother does come back, he’s not nearly as smug about it as Frank expected. In fact, Joe’s unusually subdued; he passes Frank some pain meds and sits down without saying a word.

“Do you remember anything?” asks Nancy, peering at him.

It all comes back in a sudden rush. Jacques, sawing the bars—the strange story he’d told—the locker—the medallion—

“The medallion! We have to tell Jacques—"

“He already knows,” says Joe, devoid of any emotion.

This is never a good sign. Joe has a quip ready for every situation—matter-of-fact statements have never been his style. “What’s going on?”

“Well…” Nancy begins uncertainly, “We went looking for you after you were gone for a while, and since we figured Jacques was probably the last person who saw you, we went to ask him a couple questions. He told us the whole story, but, um…he was pretty unhappy when he realized the medallion was gone.”

Joe scowls. “He doesn’t even care that you were hurt! You should have heard him Frank, going on about how he was ruined—and he thinks that _you_ lost it on purpose!”

“What?” Frank gapes.

He moves to sit up and nearly tumbles off the side of the bed. Joe and Nancy both lunge for him, grabbing onto his arms and hauling him back up.

“Hold still!” barks Joe.

Nancy adjusts the cold compress on his head while Joe fluffs his pillows. It’s at least five minutes of fussing before they both leave him alone.

Frank finds himself in the uncomfortable position of being the injured party, just a few hours after he was playing caretaker. “Can we please just get back to the case now?”

Joe sits on the edge of his bed and groans. “What case? This whole thing has been a disaster. It’s starting to feel a little less like the culprit is trapped in here with us, and more like we’re trapped in here with them.”

“Someone’s obviously trying to get us to stop following all these leads,” says Nancy. “First Joe and I get locked out of the castle and nearly freeze to death, then you get knocked unconscious—you’re lucky you weren’t seriously hurt! If they had hit you at a different angle…”

Frank notices Joe clench his fists and hurries to change the subject before his brother can interject. “Do you think the stuck elevator was also part of that?”

Nancy bites her lip, clearly mulling it over.

“No,” she says finally. Frank can’t help but note the hesitation in her voice. “No, it can’t have been. The elevator’s from the 1920s, you know. I’m sure it just broke down. Besides, why would someone do that? They led me right to the back entrance to the library.”

Joe snorts out a laugh. “Can we really call it that if you had to grease the lever, climb up the ladder and crawl through the vent just to get there? Maybe whoever it is wants people to leave the castle so that they have the place to themselves.”

“No one can get out though,” says Frank. “That’s a pretty big flaw in the plan. Plus, what if there hadn’t even been a blizzard? Then the castle would be crawling with tourists, and it would be even harder to—do whatever it is they’re trying to do.”

His inability to properly finish the sentence reminds them that they have yet to figure out what the mystery really is. Someone has vandalized the library, stolen from Hotchkiss, and apparently done their best to keep the three of them off the case—but to what end?

“It must have something to do with the medallions,” says Frank. “The one that Jacques had was blue, the one out in the shed was green…”

“Did you see anything in Jacques’s locker?” Nancy tucks her hair behind her ear and reaches for her pen, ready to scribble down any spare recollections. “Besides the medallion, I mean.”

“Yeah…yeah, actually, I did! There was a letter from his fiancée, uh, I can’t remember her name—”

“Isabelle,” Joe supplies. “Did she leave a last name? Because Nancy and I were thinking of calling her up and letting her know what a douche Jacques is.”

“Uh-huh,” says Frank knowingly. His brother never could resist playing the knight in shining armor. “Anyway, it doesn’t really matter—her letter told Jacques she couldn’t marry him if he didn’t come into some money, fast.”

“Well, there’s your motive,” says Nancy, putting it down next to Jacques’s name in her journal. “Although I’m not sure it makes sense for Jacques to be the one to knock you out and then take back his own medallion.”

“Unless he knew he had to get us off his scent!” Joe is somewhat obvious in his desire to pin the whole thing on Jacques.

“I’m with Nancy on this one,” says Frank. “I don’t think it was Jacques who hit me—although it’s possible that he’s behind everything else. He also had a book on diamonds in his locker, so he’s clearly been putting in his research.”

Nancy tilts her head and considers this. “Professor Hotchkiss _did_ say that there’s all these crazy rumors that Marie Antoinette stashed away her jewels somewhere.”

“When did she say that?”

Nancy smiles sheepishly. “While you were unconscious.”

Frank groans. “Alright, let’s try and think about motive then—did Hotchkiss say anything else about the jewels?”

“She claims that she only cares about the journal, not any hidden treasure.” Joe raises the pitch of his voice. “‘The handwritten personal thoughts of dear Marie are treasure enough!’”

“You don’t buy it?” says Nancy.

“I guess it could be true. Problem is, if there’s treasure involved, _everyone’s_ got motive,” says Joe. “There isn’t a single person in this castle that wouldn’t jump at the chance to have some priceless jewels.”

It’s unfortunately true. They’re no closer to solving this case than they were the day they arrived, and Frank’s starting to worry that if they don’t figure things out fast, the next little “accident” will be even more serious than the last.

“I just can’t help but feel like we’re missing something really obvious,” he says. “Maybe we should try and make our rounds again, see if anyone drops any information.”

Joe’s eyes light up. He clambers to his feet, extends a hand to Nancy, and declares, “Well, Nance, I do believe it’s that time in the case!”

Nancy rolls her eyes good-naturedly and takes his hand. “And what time is that, Joe?” she says, in what is clearly a rehearsed line.

(Frank is actually a little glad he was unconscious when they planned out whatever this is.)

Joe strikes a heroic pose. “Why, time to start demanding answers, of course!”

* * *

When it comes to answers, Jacques is, unfortunately, no help whatsoever. “The medallion—it has been in my family for so very long—it was my salvation—how could you be so careless? How could you do this to me?” He continues on in this manner until Frank gets fed up and cuts him off.

“Look, I’m sorry that your medallion is gone, alright?” he says loudly. “But it wasn’t my fault! I was knocked unconscious—”

“Oui, and I cannot help but find that very convenient,” says Jacques.

“Hey!” snaps Joe. “Either accept the apology or don’t, but we have better things to do than grovel at the feet of some has-been! Come on, guys.”

Frank can’t decide what he’s more surprised by: Joe’s sudden about-face in calling Jacques a “has-been,” or the way he eyes Jacques like the man is something disgusting on the bottom of his shoe.

Jacques makes an abrupt shift in demeanor of his own. “Please, I am sorry! It is only—oh, my Isabelle shall never marry me now.”

“Because you lost the medallion?” asks Nancy, her tone decidedly light. “Is it very valuable, then?”

“It is not the _medallion_ , it is what the medallion leads to,” says Jacques, clearly thinking she’s a little stupid. “That medallion was supposed to change my life! But now—ah, everything is hopeless.”

A thought suddenly pops into Frank’s head. “If all you care about is restoring your family’s good name and finding Marie Antoinette’s journal, why do you have a book on diamonds in your locker?”

Jacques narrows his eyes and draws himself up to stand tall. “Ah, now I see. You lost my medallion because you were busy looking through my belongings.”

“ _Hey_! I told you—"

“Shut up, Joe,” says Frank, not taking his eyes off Jacques. “Yeah, I’ll admit it. I saw your book on diamonds, that letter from Isabelle where she tells you she’s about to give up on you, _and_ your notice from Immigration Services. Pretty interesting combination of items there. Anything to say for yourself?”

Jacques has gone very pale. “It is time for my lunch break,” he says flatly. “Excusez-moi, s’il vous plait.”

With that, he reaches up for the rolltop and begins to unfurl it over the ski desk.

Joe harrumphs loudly. “Don’t think we won’t be checking back in with you, Brunais!” He turns on his heel and stalks off in the direction of the elevator.

Frank is a little confused by how quickly their chat with Jacques turned upside down, and he’s got a feeling his brother is the one to blame. He tugs on the sleeve of Nancy’s cardigan to keep her a few steps behind Joe. “What was all that about?”

Her eyes shoot toward Joe’s rapidly disappearing form. “He was really worried about you, Frank,” she whispers.

Yeah, he’s picked up on that, but he’s not totally sure _w_ _hy_. “Not like it’s the first time either of us has gotten a concussion.”

“It took a while for you to wake up, and it’s not like there’s anyone here who knows enough about medicine to help.” Nancy averts her gaze. “We had no idea what to do, especially since there’s no way of knowing who did it, so we couldn’t even trust the others to help.”

The three of them squeeze into the elevator, Joe staring straight ahead as they slowly climb up to the second floor. He’s silent for a long moment, then: “Anybody feel sorry for Jacques and his new relationship problems?”

Neither Frank nor Nancy respond.

“Good. That bastard deserves everything he gets.”

Behind Joe’s back, Nancy raises her eyebrows in alarm and mouths “ _what_?” at Frank.

Joe continues without noticing. “I’d like to say he’s behind the thefts, but a smart criminal wouldn’t be such a blatant scumbag.”

“Have we considered that Jacques isn’t a _smart_ criminal?” suggests Frank, hoping to lighten the mood. Of course, that’s usually Joe’s department, for obvious reasons—Frank’s not great at keeping things bright and cheery.

Nancy gives him a half-smile for his troubles, but Joe doesn’t even bother to glance his way.

They trudge back to their rooms in silence. Frank is already feeling a little tired from just that short trip, but he’s not stupid enough to let it show in front of his brother. Nancy’s probably caught on, because all she does is let out an absurdly long yawn and wish them goodnight before disappearing into her own room.

Frank and Joe get ready for bed without saying a word.

* * *

Frank is awoken by someone gently but insistently shaking his shoulders.

“Hurry up and get dressed!” says Joe, just centimeters away from his ear.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” asks Frank, unable to see anything in the dark of their room.

Joe darts out the door without answering.

Rolling over with a groan, Frank glances at the digital clock. _4:37_ blares back at him in bright red numbers. Joe better have a damned good reason for getting him up this early. He slowly sits up and swings his feet over the side of the bed.

Get dressed, Joe had said. His sleep pants are probably fine for whatever they’re going to be doing at _4:37 in the morning_ , so that just leaves finding a shirt. Simple. Easy.

At least, it would be if he were actually feeling normal.

Joe bursts back into their room with a slam of the door. “Frank! You’ll never guess—what are you doing?”

Frank is busy trying to pull his shirt on without brushing up against his head wound, wondering why he decided not to pack any button-ups for this trip. “Hang on,” he says, voice slightly muffled by the fabric.

He can hear Joe heave a massive sigh before he feels a hand grab onto the back of his collar and carefully guide the shirt around the gauze on his head.

“Thanks, I—” he breaks off abruptly when he realizes that Nancy, not Joe, was the one helping him.

She smiles. “No problem. Are you feeling better?”

“Uh, yeah, a little,” says Frank. He wonders if suddenly feeling hot all over is a symptom of a concussion.

“Hello? Is no one at all curious why I brought us all together?”

He triumphantly pulls out something from his jacket pocket—Frank squints, still having trouble with blurry vision—

Nancy gasps. “The blue medallion!” She takes it gently from Joe and traces the etchings with her finger.

He leans over Nancy’s shoulder to get a better look at it. “Where did you find it?”

“Hotchkiss’s room,” says Joe.

Frank’s head immediately swivels toward him. “Her room? She let you into her room?” Every time he has a head injury, he seems to miss the most exciting developments in the case. It shouldn’t surprise him anymore, but there’s still a twinge of disappointment that he wasn’t around for this.

Nancy has a somewhat different set of priorities. “How did you get it out without her noticing?”

“She wasn’t in there,” says Joe. “And before you say anything, Frank, _no_ , I did not break in. She gave me her room key and said I could look around whenever she’s downstairs.”

Frank feels his jaw drop. “I’ve been running errands for her, answering all her little questions, putting up with her calling me Fernando for three days—and she gives _you_ her room key?”

“What can I say,” says Joe, infuriatingly smug. “I’m just that charming.”

Nancy, ever the peacemaker, interrupts before the two of them can get going again. “I was going to wait until morning to show you, but since we’re all awake now—” She opens the flap of her messenger bag and pulls out the red medallion.

“No way!” Joe immediately turns to Frank and says, “don’t tell me you’ve got one stashed away, too.”

“There’s only three medallions, Joe. Three slots in the tower room, remember?” He turns to Nancy. “Where’d you find this one?”

“I went out to the secret garden Dexter mentioned and I found this hidden out there.”

Joe furrows his brow. “Hang on, when did you do that?”

“When it was your turn to watch Frank.”

“You went out alone?” says Frank, outraged. He turns to Joe. “Why didn’t you go with her?”

“Sorry if I was a little busy making sure my brother didn’t end up with permanent brain damage!” Joe shoots back before pausing. “Wait, there’s a joke there…give me a sec…”

“I wasn’t alone,” says Nancy. “I asked Dexter to come with me.”

“…I honestly can’t decide if that’s better or worse than going by yourself,” says Frank. “Dexter is just as much a suspect as anyone else in this castle! What if he had closed the door on you and you died of hypothermia out there?”

Nancy shrugs. “I really doubt that it’s him. Why tell me about the garden if he didn’t want me out there? He told me he went there all the time when he was a kid.”

“He told you about his childhood?” Frank kind of can’t believe it, but if any of them were to break through to Dexter, it would be Nancy. “Did he mention Ezra Wickford?”

Nancy wrinkles her nose. “Sort of. I got the sense that it’s kind of a touchy subject, and I didn’t want to press my luck. The thing is, he let me look at the garden alone. I had him stay at the door to let me back in, but he couldn’t see me behind the stone walls. And that’s where I found the medallion. Why would he lead me to the exact place if he was the one behind all this? Wouldn’t he want to hold onto all the medallions?”

“Here’s the real question: why did he tell _you_ about the garden and not me?” Joe has fallen off his high from discovering the blue medallion and is now pouting on his bed. “I’ve been dropping heavy hints this whole time!”

“Gee, I wonder,” Frank deadpans.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Joe, narrowing his eyes.

Nancy gives Joe a pointed look. “It always pays to be nice to the man in charge.”

He makes a face. “Can we really call him the man in charge if he’s not the owner?”

“That right there is why he didn’t tell you,” says Frank.

Unsurprisingly, Joe decides to change the subject. “So are we thinking that Hotchkiss did it? Since she’s the one with the blue medallion, and she must have gotten it from somewhere.”

“I don’t know…why let you into her room if there was a chance you’d find the medallion?”

Frank considers this for a moment. It kind of makes sense—it’s awfully convenient for Hotchkiss to allow someone into her room the night after she acquires the medallion. “You think it was planted there then? Guess that kind of widens the field again.”

Nancy sighs and cups her chin in her hand. “Just once, it would be nice to _narrow_ the field.”

Frank finds himself in the unusual position of being the positive one in the trio. “You know what this means, don’t you?” He looks between the two of them, feeling a grin spread across his face. “We have all three medallions. We can put them in the tower and figure out what they do!”

It takes a moment for that to sink in, but he can pinpoint the exact second that the lightbulb goes off in Nancy’s brain.

“Well,” she says, beaming, “no time like the present. Are you both good to go now?”

Frank nods, immediately getting to his feet. He’s a little unsteady on his feet still, and Joe has to clasp him firmly on the shoulder to keep him from swaying.

“Listen, uh…maybe you should stay here,” says Joe, not meeting his eyes.

“You’re kidding,” says Frank.

“Frank, don’t be a rabid porcupine!” Joe’s voice jumps about twenty decibels. “You’re not exactly in tip-top shape in case things go sideways—"

“ _I’m fine_. Are you sure you shouldn’t stay here, Mr. Hypothermia?”

“That was ages ago—”

“That was yesterday!”

“Well, it doesn’t take as long to recover from that as it does a concussion!”

“How does this sound?” Nancy cuts them off. “If any of us starts to feel a little under the weather, we say so _immediately_ and everyone leaves to get some rest. That way, nobody’s missing out.”

“What, and leave the treasure for someone else to find?” asks Joe incredulously.

“The treasure’s been there over a century. I think it can wait a little bit longer, right?”

Frank and Joe both make begrudging noises of agreement.

Pleased with her solution, Nancy heads out the door. Frank moves to follow, but Joe snags his sleeve and hisses, “say you’re not feeling well.”

“I will as soon as you do,” he shoots back, jogging to catch up with Nancy.

Head injury aside, this case is finally starting to look up.

* * *

The three of them wait until Hotchkiss has returned to her room before they hurry out to Marie Antoinette’s tower. There’s a perfect window of time where usually no one is about—it’s too early for Dexter or Jacques, so there’s a good chance of them staying undetected. Lisa’s schedule continues to be a mystery, but Nancy claims that she doesn’t seem to be an early riser, so they’re willing to take their chances.

The tower is almost shockingly easy to get into, with the exception of one chessboard-like puzzle that reminds Joe of an old arcade game. Frank is the one who finally cracks it, a fact which he is more than a little proud of.

“I’d just like to point out that, even with a concussion, I managed this faster than you did,” he says.

And yeah, that’s pretty embarrassing. Joe’s got to cover for it somehow, and he’s really only got one tool in his arsenal. “Yeah, well…you’re not dealing with frozen fingers like I am.”

“So you admit that your hypothermia is preventing you from being at 100%?”

“No! I don’t admit anything, _God_! Do you always have to act like this?”

“Funny, that’s usually my line—"

“You guys, there’s something in here!”

Frank and Joe both turn, surprised to find that Nancy’s gone on into the tower without them. Frank must have turned a little too fast though, because he stumbles a little and nearly goes down.

“I told you you should have stayed in the room,” chides Joe, offering a hand for balance.

Frank is audibly gritting his teeth. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, so when I’m hurt, it’s ‘Joe, you idiot,’ but when you’re hurt, I’m just supposed to shut up and let you stumble around like a drunken walrus?”

“Yes!”

“How does that make any sense—”

“Because it was your own fault that you almost froze to death! I didn’t do anything wrong—”

“—I wouldn’t have gotten hypothermia if someone hadn’t locked us out of the castle—”

“— _Nancy_ didn’t get hypothermia!”

They are once more interrupted by a voice from the tower, but there’s no mistaking these grating tones for Nancy. “And me without my sunglasses!”

“Lisa,” says Frank, completely unnecessarily.

Joe curses himself for getting distracted and letting Lisa slip by them. If he hadn’t gotten distracted by Frank—if Frank had just stayed in their room like he was _supposed_ to, like a good patient with a head injury would—

They hear a cry of pain, followed by an extended monologue from Lisa that’s unfortunately just a hair too quiet to really make out.

Joe pushes Frank to the side—no use risking yet another blow to the head when he’s already got a concussion—and moves to block Lisa’s path down the stairs. She tears out of the tower room, one hand inside her jacket.

Joe’s primed for a gun. Adrenaline racing, he starts up the stairs, ready to rush her and wrestle the gun out of her hands.

“Pretty rotten luck,” she says, looking down on him from the top of the stairs. “I was hoping I’d only have to use this once.”

“You probably shouldn’t have been so loud when you talked to Nancy then,” says Joe.

She smirks. “Funny. Too bad we never got a chance to _really_ talk, just you and me. We would’ve had a real laugh.” Then she’s raising her arm.

He’s only got a split second to recognize it as pepper spray, no time at all to brace himself before she’s pressing down—

—and nothing comes out. The spray mechanism is jammed.

Joe will give her this: she’s quick on her feet. Immediately after registering what’s happened, she hurls the metal can directly at his head, and he’s left with no choice but to duck. It’s a tricky maneuver, and the lack of railing on the stairs causes him to stumble back onto the main floor, but at least he didn’t get maced.

“Joe, move!” Frank, who must have gotten behind him at some point, has caught the can firmly in his hand and has it aimed right at Lisa.

Her eyes widen. “No, wait—ah!”

Much to the boys’ surprise, Lisa has seemingly plunged right through the stairs and into the little jail cell underneath. Her scream is cut off by her abrupt contact with the ground, but nothing keeps Lisa quiet for long. She moves to press her face against the bars of the door. “Help! Get me out of here! Don’t just stand there, you clowns!”

Neither Frank nor Joe feels much inclined to offer her a hand up. In fact, they’re a little too busy wondering just how the floor managed to drop out from under her.

“Uh, Nance?” calls Joe. “I’m guessing that was you?”

Nancy appears at the top of the stairs, one hand held over her eyes. “Please tell me neither of you fell. I can’t see all that clearly right now.”

“Yeah, we’re fine. Are you hurt?”

“I’m alright, I think.” She moves her hand.

Joe recoils at the sight of her watery, red-rimmed eyes. It’s been a while since he’s been pepper-sprayed, and he’d almost forgotten just how bad it could feel. “Geez, Nancy, I’m sorry! We should’ve been up there with you.”

She waves it off. “It’s only fair. You got hypothermia, Frank was knocked out, and now I’ve been pepper sprayed. Pretty even spread of damage, wouldn’t you say?”

Joe pauses a moment, then nods. When she puts it that way, it sounds pretty reasonable; it’s never a good sign when one person’s taking all of the beatings. He hears Frank make a begrudging noise of agreement.

“You three are _crazy_!” Lisa shouts from her place below them.

* * *

On the last day of their vacation at Wickford, Frank, Nancy, and Joe are sitting on the couch in the parlor, reflecting on their most recent case. Lisa had stayed in the cell for a few hours, Dexter feeding her by sliding chicken drumsticks through the bars of the door, until the roads had finally cleared enough that the police had been able to make their way to Wickford. Apparently, the presence of a criminal gave the castle a higher priority for road plows.

Lisa hadn’t been the only inhabitant of the castle to beat a hasty retreat, and Joe is still a little miffed. “I can’t believe Jacques decided to just run off and get married without giving us a single lesson first.”

“Would you even want skiing lessons from him now?” counters Nancy.

“Well, no. But it’s the principle of the thing! This was supposed to be a ski trip, Nan—and I’ve somehow managed to do everything _but_ ski.”

He and Jacques never had made up—Joe persisted in believing that Jacques was an absolute creep, that poor Isabelle likely had no idea who she was saddling herself to, and that while he may not have been the one behind the thefts, he certainly wasn’t innocent.

Still, Jacques was an Olympic skier—and how many people could say they’d had personal lessons from a professional athlete?

“At least you can tell Chet that he didn’t miss much,” says Frank, nudging him in the ribs. It’s a good point: Joe had been able to content himself with the mystery, but Chet wouldn’t have enjoyed spending a week in Wisconsin without being able to do _something_ to alleviate stir-craziness.

“Just a diamond thief, a lost piece of history, and several nearly-fatal accidents.” Nancy ticks them off on her fingers and gives them both a knowing smile. “All in all, a pretty standard vacation for the three of us.”

“Speaking of history,” says Frank, “Professor Hotchkiss said she’d name the three of us in the acknowledgments of her next book.”

Nancy hums appreciatively before cutting him a scrutinizing look. “Think she’ll actually remember our real names?”

He grins back at her. “I’m not holding my breath.”

To the very last, after all, Hotchkiss had called him Jake—but somehow, after only two meetings, she had remembered _Joe’s_ name perfectly.

Dexter enters the parlor with a tray laden with food for the three of them. He takes special care to remove a plate and place it directly in front of Joe. “There ya go, kiddo. A Fried Bologna Sandwich Supreme, _extra_ potato chip sprinkles, and a glass of chocolate milk. How’s that?”

All of Joe’s lingering disappointment vanishes in an instant. “Awesome! Seriously, thanks Mr. Egan.”

Dexter doesn’t beat his usual quick retreat; he lingers in the parlor, eyes downcast. “Sure you’ve got everything you brought with you?”

“Hundred percent sure,” says Joe.

“Don’t worry,” says Frank. “I double-checked the room after Joe left.”

The expression on Dexter’s face isn’t exactly a smile, but it lightens up his face a little all the same. “And you made sure to take those gloves I gave you?”

“In the front pocket of my bag,” promises Joe.

“Good.” He makes to leave, then turns back at the last second. “Miss Drew, I spoke to Christi Lane—we hashed things out, and, well, she’s agreed to split ownership of Wickford Castle with me. We’re going to fix this place up together so it’s just like it used to be when I was a kid.”

Nancy grants him her most sincere smile and says, “That’s amazing news, Mr. Egan. I’m sure you’ll make a great co-owner.”

“I appreciate everything you three have done.” He manages to bring himself to look each of them in the eyes for a fraction of a second before returning his gaze to the lobby. “You’re welcome back anytime.”

“See you, Mr. Egan!” they chorus.

Nancy waits until he’s made his way up the main stairs to whisper, “I gave him that poem we found. The one from his father? He was definitely pretty choked up about it. I told him how to find that secret room in the library too.”

“Gonna be real awkward when he finds out about the two scrapbooks,” says Joe.

Frank winces in silent agreement.

Nancy’s not quite so sure. “Maybe. But I think he’ll be pleased to have a few pieces of his dad again.”

 _Pieces of his dad_ , thinks Joe. He’d never have thought of it that way, but Nancy would know more about losing a parent than they would. All that’s left of Ezra Wickford is his castle and his scrapbooks, and now Dexter has both. It’s certainly more than the man had for decades, but he can’t seem to shake the idea of Ezra, dying alone, never reconciling with his son.

He must make some sort of noise, because Nancy pats him gently on the shoulder and says, “it’s alright, Joe. We did what we could.”

Joe mulls this over, staring out the window. It’s that overwhelming feeling of blindness again, the stark white of the snow. The little specks of color are easier to find this time, maybe because he’s nice and warm inside, or maybe because the snow has finally begun to ebb away after several days of storms. There’s a cardinal sitting on the top of the open gate to the driveway, bright red against the bleak backdrop. He watches it flutter its wings, maybe for seconds, maybe for hours. There is nothing else moving outside, just the cardinal, and he can almost pretend that the whole world has stopped...

He’s jolted back into the present by a particularly loud page turn from Frank.

Nancy’s curled up on the end of the sofa, with her feet tucked under her as she wraps things up in her case journal; Frank’s on the other end, with a book on French History open to the page on Robespierre in his lap; he’s got the best looking sandwich in the world in front of him, along with Ezra Wickford’s own most important invention; the fire is crackling in front of them; and the snow outside has died down enough that it looks picturesque rather than perilous.

There’s only one thing left to do: he takes a bite of the sandwich—

—and it is _heavenly._

“Hey, guys? Remember everything I said about how this vacation was lousy?”

“You mean, what you literally just said thirty seconds ago?” Frank says dryly.

He ignores this. “I take it all back. This was the best vacation _ever_.”

* * *

Just like last time, I'd like to give credit for the original idea to @bessgeorgefrankjoe on tumblr, who made [this post](https://bessgeorgefrankjoe.tumblr.com/post/161399412418/if-i-could-write-something-for-project-ndae-i) ages ago and inspired a million little ideas in my brain. Maybe I'll actually get around to CLK one of these days!


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